


The Wench, The Kingslayer and Tormund Jaimesbane

by 49Times



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Multi, OT3, Romance, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-07-10 07:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6973912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/49Times/pseuds/49Times
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of Westeros has finally come to realize the importance of the fight beyond the Wall. </p><p>When Jaime shows up to join the fray, he's delighted to reunite with his favorite wench. However, she's not exactly the same person he remembers. She's... happier, somehow and it seems her relationship with a certain ginger giant may be a prime cause.</p><p>Join Jaime as he grapples not only with White Walkers and frigid cold, but that green-eyed monster called jealousy- and Brienne, as she attempts to cope with the affections of two very different men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a hodgepodge of show and book canon. I just kind of rolled with what made sense to me since things are getting messy.

The wench was... different than he remembers her being.

That shouldn’t be altogether surprising.

She’d seen countless horrors since their parting at King’s Landing, all those years ago, when he’d sent her off on a mad quest to fulfill their oaths to a woman long dead. The odds were stacked against in in this war-torn world, and he’d certainly wondered as they said their goodbyes if he’d ever seen her again. He tried not to dare to hope that he ever would.

She’d flitted into his mind often over the years, a part of himself that he couldn't shake no matter the distance between them, no matter that he didn't know whether she was alive or dead.

As all his other- and meager few- relationships collapsed around him, he recalled Brienne of Tarth a single bright spot in clouded life. But though he wondered about her often, he’d never quite been able to imagine where she was or what she was doing.

Now he knew- at least a bit. 

As the years passed them by and the winter chill set in across the land, she’d fought men fouler and viler than Locke and faced undead wights that were nearly impossible to stop. He didn’t believe in the gods- not really- but he thanked them a hundred times all the same when he’d found out what Valyrian steel could do to these monstrous creatures, when so many other weapons failed.

Since she’d departed upon her quest, Brienne had looked upon grim things and tasted more bitterness with each passing day. By rights, her view of the world ought to be a fierce deal darker by now- but he’s hardly surprised that she hasn’t changed much in that regard- that she still holds tight to those dogged beliefs in chivalry and honor that had annoyed him, inspired him, touched parts of him he'd thought were dead. 

Hells, on their own journey, all those years ago, she’d been threatened with rape, seen him lose a hand over a hare-brained attempt to protect her- been forced to fight off a massive bear with a wooden bloody sword and _still_ she’d left on her quest with an honest desperation to put some good back into the world.

He should have known she’d never change.

Only she _had_.

She had changed.

Not in any fundamental way- she was still painfully good and righteous in a way that scarcely seemed real, risking her thick bloody neck every bloody day to keep safe the innocents of the world as he knew she would until the day it finally killed her.

Overall, she was still that stubborn, moralistic girl he'd left Riverrun with...but somehow, the wench was different.

She was, as far as he could tell, _happy_.

It was absurd, but he could think of no other way to describe it. She was happy- happy in a way he’d never seen her, in a way he suspected she’d never truly been.

Even in childhood, he imagined, Brienne of Tarth had probably known how out of place she was. A girl her size, more interested in playing at swords than keeping up with courtly fashions and gossip, who fit in neither among men nor women- how could she not have been aware, even as a girl?

The world was harsh and quick to judge- hells, the day they met Jaime himself had no more than glanced at her before cruelty’d spilt from his own bloody lips, and he’d gotten a twisted enjoyment, in those early days, out of finding the words that could puncture her calm.

At her core, the wench was _soft_ and always had been. 

She was hard enough to cross blades with just about any man and come out on top, true enough, but she soft all the same.

Difficult to wound with a blade, but easy enough to cut with a well-chosen word.

Over the years she’d built her walls high, but they were full of cracks and he knew she was fragile beneath all that armor. She might be able to endure the scorn she’d received every day of her life for being so different, but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel the sting of it in her tender heart.

Hers was a sorrowful existence, sticking out wherever she went.

Only she _didn’t_ stick out here, at this frigid outpost on the top of the world, except as one of the greatest among them.

She’d found a place here, amid this strange amalgamation of warriors; banished southern men forced to take the black due to crimes or lack of options; hardened wildlings who’d given up a little bit of their wildness to join this fight to hold back perpetual night; fierce Northern women- Mormonts and Manderlys and a grown Sansa Stark, far sharper and more formidable than the child Jaime scarcely recalled from all those years ago in King’s Landing.

The Stark girl- _woman_ \- had welcomed him at Winterfell a little frostily and made it clear that only because she trusted Brienne of Tarth with all of her heart that he and his retinue of men had even gotten past the gate.

It had warmed him, to think that his noble, sullen wench had vouched for him so earnestly, and when he learned she was at the Wall, Jaime found himself unable to wait more than one night before continuing North to see her, in spite of Sansa’s offer to let his men rest a few nights more.

And so he’d traversed the last of the great distance to the Wall, and there he’d found her, truly part of something, brimming with purpose. 

Up here, they were all fighting the same fight and no one had the time or inclination to mock the height or appearance of a woman more capable than anyone here of protecting them from undead walkers, with the possible exception of that bloody giant Wun-Wun.

It was something to behold, this new Brienne who had finally found her place in the world.

When she’d accepted his sword, glimmering Oathkeeper that had once been Ned Stark’s blade, she’s stood tall, steely determination in her eyes.

Now she blazed with the fire of an oath fulfilled- she’d found the Stark girl and helped her take back her castle, and now she was a trusted right-hand woman of the Bastard Jon Snow. (No longer a bastard really, legitimized apparently once by dead Robb Stark and again by the youngest Stark boy, Rickon.)

Snow- Stark- was no longer bound by the title of Lord Commander, but that wasn’t stopping him from tirelessly working to defend the Wall and the lands south of it from the undead plague.

The wench had earned the trust of the eldest living Stark children and had risen to great responsibility. Every day, she moved among the men in black and wildlings too, inspecting jobs, taking inventory, training fighters, giving instructions and generally being a commanding presence.

They respected her, all of them. She could be surrounded on every side by a hundred people and there wasn’t a one of them who didn’t appear to admire her completely.

But it was more than just finally having the respect she deserved, being seen for the magnificent, glorious oddity she was instead of reviled as a hideous freak.

There was a _lightness_ about her now.

Had he ever seen her smile, even once in all the days they’d spent together? If he had, he could not recall it.

She smiled now. Surprisingly often, too, given how bleak their plight against the walkers still was.

She smiled at Podrick Payne and the new recruits in the training yard, who she spared time for whenever she could to work on their form and offer encouragement.

She smiled at the Mormont women and Maester Tarly, at Wylla Manderly and Dolorous Edd and at the smiths and stewards and dozens of wildling men, women and children Jaime still didn’t know the names of .

What’s more- she _laughed_.

That, he had certainly never heard before. She laughed, at a droll word from Dolorous Edd or a wry comment from brooding Snow, at some twinkly-eyed jape from one of the other warrior women who’d flocked to the cause.

Or at him.

Mostly it was at _him._

Giantsbane.

It ought not seem too strange- Tormund was a crude, bearded beast of a man, bawdy and boisterous, but he made most people laugh. Jaime hadn't been at the Wall long before it became apparent that the man was well-liked by all. Still, his sense of humor seemed entirely at odds with the wench’s.

Of course, Jaime had never even known she _possessed_ a sense of humor, so what did he know? True, most of the time when she laughed at the ginger beast it was a disapproving sort of laughter, with a shaking head or narrowed eyes, but once or twice he’d caught her snorting into her porridge with the rest of them at some grandiose tale the brute told.

Tormund Giantsbane. Jaime snorted at the thought. He’d often marveled at the fools of the seven kingdoms and the stupid bloody nicknames they put on people but these wildlings were a breed of their own. Giantsbane, really. 

Under normal circumstances, Jaime thought he might have even liked the great red brute. And until today, he hadn’t held any particularly ill feelings towards the man.

True, he’d felt a general twinge of jealousy towards him, but that was no difference than what he felt towards _all_  of the people here who took up the wench’s time. When he'd heard she was here, and safe, and alive he'd rather hoped he might have the pleasure of basking in her company a bit more than he was at present. She was, after all, the only person in Westeros who held him any kind of regard, the person who knew him best. 

He’d...he’d allowed himself to get carried away with a few vague thoughts on his way up here, of what it would be like between them when they reunited.

He imagined some sort of glorious reunion- thought that she, the only person left on the bloody continent he gave an aurock’s shit about, would be utterly thrilled to see him and they’d....well he didn’t know exactly _what_ but he rather thought they’d spend more time together than they were.

It’s not that she wasn’t delighted to see him. She was.

In fact, when he’d ridden up to the gate and dismounted from his horse, it had been _her_ who had breached those first few moments of stunned, incredulous silence where they’d only stared at each other in disbelief. She broke their frozen spell, shaking her head in amazement, stepping forward and pulling him into a tight embrace. There were snowflakes in her hair and they melted against him when she pressed her cheek to his.

The wench was more than happy to see him.

She was just- bloody busy. He’d been here about a fortnight, and since he’d arrived they met as often as they could, spoke of all the things they’d seen and done in their time apart.

Well, not all- he had his secrets and the wench had hers, though he hoped perhaps in time he’d be able to tell her more than the surface version of it all.

The loss of his daughter and son, the death of his father at the hand of the brother he’d set free, and the terrible, terrible fall out with Cersei. They weighed heavy on him and if there was a soul on this rapidly freezing earth he’d ever tell the truth of it all to, it was her, that stubborn beast of a woman who’d once listened to another of his never-before-spoken tales with soft, wide eyes, full of understanding. She'd listened, truly, and allowed her perceptions of him to shift, her regard to grow.

He’d been on the cusp of telling her more once, when they'd sat together at the end of table for dinner, but just as he was starting to speak, in a low voice, of something serious, some duty had called her away, a loathsome, nearly-toothless crow announcing Snow needed to speak with her….that was always it.

Duty.

He wasn't spending all his time with her, as a half-buried part of him longed to- because of duty. He’d told himself that often enough, whenever he felt that creeping disappointment.

Only it wasn’t _duty_ that separated them now.

There was a feast on at Castle Black, to welcome the new influx of men and celebrate the fact that the South was finally answering the call the Watch had desperately made hundreds of times. The truth of the threat beyond the Wall had spread, and men everywhere were abandoning the commands of their Lords in the hopes of keeping their loved ones safe from the undead.

The squabbling for crowns and thrones had at last been cast aside in acknowledgment of the true threat looming over them all. By most, at least. From what he knew, Cersei was still clinging stubbornly to the singular goal of holding the Iron Throne, of being ready for the Dragon Queen across the sea who seemed closer to crossing it with each day. 

The spirits in Castle Black were high, the highest he'd seen them since he'd arrived.

Music and laughter rang out in the halls, and he could not pretend it was merely duty that kept her from him now. If tonight was about duty, would she not be moving among the Southern Lords, getting to know them and asking after numbers and supplies?

She wasn’t.

There she was, sat among her friends- Dolorous Edd, Sam Tarly and Gilly, Podrick Payne and a handful of others in her circle and... _him._

He was sat right beside her, as animated and lively as ever he was, downing ale like a man parched. Beside him, the wench was indulging in a few cups herself- by no means matching Tormund cup for cup but still partaking more than Jaime had ever seen her do before.

As he watched from a separate table, scowling petulantly and unable to prevent it, he surmised that she probably wasn’t drunk, but was certainly seeming much lighter and more relaxed than he’d ever seen her.

Jaime tried not to feel too bitter about the lack of an invitation to her table, or the fact that she hadn't even looked around for him since the start of the feast.

There was a whole table set aside for the most important of the Lannister bannermen who’d answered the call for men, and he was seated among them, having much less fun than she seemed to be. As much as he wished it weren’t true, it irked him to be on the outside of her new world.

Perhaps it was because his strongest memories of her were of that black time when they were each other’s only world, and she was the light that pulled him back from the brink. She’d built up a family of her own here, and his had dissolved into nothing since they'd parted ways.

He ought to be happier for her and less sorry for himself.

He told himself as much, but it was a losing battle.

Here he was, sat at a table with a bunch of Southron dullards- ignorant fools who still hadn’t quite caught onto the severity of the situation- still caught up in criticizing the wildlings for their barbaric culture, while simultaneously talking about which of their women had caught their eyes- blind to the fact that they’d like as not find themselves short a pair of balls if they crossed one of these hardened women the wrong way.

Jaime may have never been as prone to drowning his woes in drink as either of his siblings, but as he listened to Brienne's laughter ringing out across the hall, a strange- and strangely beautiful- sound, he found the technique was suiting him just fine.

It was after his third mug of ale that he final started to see it in a new light. They were more interesting to focus his attention on than the useless prattle going on at his own table. He watched them, and as he did, his previously benign feelings towards Giantsbane began to shift.

The bloody bastard was _making eyes_ at her. It was plain as day.

He could see the hunger in Tormund’s glances, and it made his shoulders stiffen. Jaime watched them in foggy disbelief.

The brute was bloody _burning_ with it- desire, for the wench! Brienne was bloody oblivious, of course, innocent, naive thing that she was. Had she really not figured out what these wildlings were like by now, living and working among them every bloody day?

It was obscene, and she just sat there beside him, talking and drinking beside him without a care in the world.

Jaime would need to have a word with her about him.

True, it seemed this Tormund Giantsbane bloke was well within Snow’s inner circle- and her’s as well- but the wench was known for being too bloody good and trusting and he’d heard the tale of Snow getting stabbed a dozen times by his own men.

The naive fools didn’t have a clue how to watch their own backs but never mind- Jaime was here now and he’d do if for the bloody idiots.

There weren’t many men who could overpower Brienne on their own, but this Tormund might be capable if he had a mind for it, and he was clearly fond of his drink. He better let the guileless girl in on what was happening, lest she find herself on the wrong end of his lust in a tough situation.

Jaime continued to watch them, this pair that was far more compelling and alarming than anything going on at his own table. If he’d been in possession of his actual right hand instead of a golden atrocity, he even be tempted might grab the red giant by the back of his furry collar and pull him backwards off the bench, offer to fight him.

True, causing a scene like that would infuriate the wench, she might not speak to him for days. It’d be worth it though. A good duel would get his blood pumping, and even if he was a lecherous barbarian, Tormund would be a fight to remember.

But no- he may have improved over the years with his left hand, but he would never be the swordsman he was, and confrontation here and now would only lead to humiliation.

Still, he’d have to warn the wench at the first opportunity.

The man couldn’t keep his bloody eyes off her. He had his sights on her, and as much as he wanted to judge the wench for being so oblivious, it was honestly fair enough on her part not to suspect. He knew the way Southron men had talked to her, treated her, scorned her. She was a joke to them and the thought of any man south of the Wall genuinely wanting her was ridiculous.

 _You did_ , a small voice inside his head sneered, calling up memories of steaming bath, powerful thighs and a blonde thicket at their juncture. And that expression on her face, hard and defiant.

True, his body had once had an absurd, involuntary reaction to her towering nude form, that day in the baths at Harrenhal, but he’d been half-mad with fever at the time and he'd put his head on right soon enough.

Brienne was- she wasn’t much to look at, and had been told so in worse words all her life. Even Jaime had never considered the possibility that another man might truly want her- save for the vile, vicious sort like Locke and those he kept company with who thought of women as things to be had at their will.

But this giant of a man- this _Tormund Giantsbane_ \- that he wanted the wench was as plain as the nose on his face.

Though he told his bawdy stories and chattered with all in their vicinity, his eyes always came back to her, checking to gauge her reactions, giving her several lopsided, affectionate ( _no, lecherous_ ) grins and winks.

He watched them, continuing to drink deeply, gripping his silverware tight, prepared to face confrontation and humiliation if the wildling overstepped the line he was toeing.

It wasn’t until the fourth cup of ale that Jaime finally- truly got it.

A few tables over, he couldn’t make out much of what they were saying, but Giantsbane’s voice carried better than most and as Jaime finished his drink he watched in abject horror as Giantsbane let out a booming laugh and Brienne turned away from him, shaking her head and biting back a bashful grin.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes clearly sparkling even from a distance. The shyness of it, the amusement- it bordered on _coy_.

It was perhaps the most feminine Brienne ever appeared to him, even when she’d been forced into gowns and finery. Jaime felt his blood run cold and he gripped his empty goblet with white knuckles.

“Ah, I’m only joking, love! Only joking!” Tormund cried, chuckling heartily.

She had her back to him, her shoulders stiff and straight, but though she said nothing, the wench was still smiling. Less than a moment later Tormund reached a massive arm around her front and pulled her to him, flush against his own broad chest. “Come here t’ me, lass. Come ‘ere to me.”

He leaned in close, rested his great ruddy head against her cheek then and- gods- nipped her right on the bloody ear. Brienne’s eyes widened in surprise and she let out a gasp, quickly swiveling back around to face him, pressing against his chest with her large hand and giving him a shove. “Stop it!” she commanded, but the spark in her eyes made it clear she didn’t want him to stop- not really. "Bloody fool." 

Tormund reached up his own massive hand to grasp hers with a surprising amount of tenderness and they locked eyes for a long, charged moment. The wench held his gaze, lips pursed in _not-really_ annoyance.

Just when Jaime thought the twisting in his gut could grow no worse, she dropped her hand out of Tormund’s, butted against his shoulder playfully with her own and settled in against his side, closer than they’d been before. His fur-clad arm was wrapped around the small of her back, and she sank against him, resting her head against his shoulder briefly.

With another chuckle, Tormund planted a kiss on top of her blonde head. Jaime's chest constricted when she smiled softly and closed her eyes, the picture of contentment. 

The pair fell back into merry conversation with the others at their table after that and Jaime tore his eyes away from them with a blackened, ugly expression.

They’re _fucking_.

He wasn’t sure what infuriated him more- that it was happening, that Brienne of Tarth was clearly fucking this Northern _barbarian_ \- that it’d taken him this bloody long to cop on- or...that he _cared_. 

It didn’t matter. The noise of the hall was suddenly too bloody much for him and the bite of mutton he’d thrown into his mouth in a desperate attempt at distraction tasted like ash on his tongue. He took a last swig of ale in an attempt to wash it down from a cup that wasn’t even his, to the protests of whatever idiot it belonged to.

Disgusted- with the food, with himself, with the pair of bloody fools pressed warm against each other at their table, completely oblivious to him- he got to his feet.

Feeling as though he were made of lead, he stormed across the bustling hall, away from the blazing fires and out into the frigid night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gets a further glimpse into the nature of Brienne and Tormund's relationship, and is *surprise* not thrilled by what he sees.

 

Jaime stood outside in the crisp, cold night beneath more stars than he’d ever imagined there could be in the world. This was as North as he ever cared to go- though knew that despite his still subpar left hand, he’d likely go further still before this war was through- and Winter had long since set in. As such, it was freezing. But, fortunately, not the coldest night he’d seen yet.

 

It was warm enough to stay outside, wallowing in his own irate feelings. He’d even found some drunk black brother, passed out in a stall with some bedded down horses, a full flask of something foul at his hip. Jaime has swiped it without much thought, and was increasing the drunken cloud about his head rapidly, making the cold a lot more bearable.

 

 _Slow down, you bloody fool,_ he thought, _or like as not you’ll wake up to find what fingers remain to you blackened and froze off._

_What a sight that would be, the last known child of Tywin Lannister, unable to even hold his own cock to take a piss?_

 

Still he drank on, and on, until he was at last interrupted by the voices of the last people he cared to see.

He’d recognize that booming laugh anywhere. And he wasn’t alone. He fell back into the shadows, not wanting to be seen, or to say the foolish things on the tip of his tongue that would probably make Giantsbane smash his skull into the ice wall.

 

Glancing across the courtyard, he’d made out her statuesque silhouette, stood close to her companion. _Her lover._ He may have thought of her over the years just as he remembered her- a shy, hulking, awkward maiden, only comfortable in her own skin when she was wielding a blade. Hell, he’d lost his bloody hand in a fit of chivalry as he’d sought to _keep_ her a maid.

 

Well, she certainly wasn’t one now, this highborn girl he’d sent off on a quest, never expecting to see again. That shouldn’t make him scowl so, but it did, and he was too drunk to rationalize the feeling away.

 

“Come on, lass!” Tormund was saying as they slowly meandered through the courtyard.  “It’s bloody warm by Northern standards! Sure I’d wager we’ll get no finer night for it ‘til this blasted winter’s gone and who’s to say we’ll still be here when it has? Indulge me, sweetling, and my wild, romantic notions! Lie with me beneath the stars.”

 

“I just- I just don’t understand why you _want_...my quarters are perfectly suitable!”

 

“Aye, and I’ve made you more than suitably happy in those quarters the last dozen times- or am I a liar?”

 

The wench ducked her head, clearly blushing even at a distance.

“You’re certainly not a liar. It’s just- we’ll doubtless be sent out ranging- sooner rather than later. Why not enjoy the comforts of Castle Black while-”

 

“Aye- and we’ll be on edge the entire time, afraid to blink in case some bloody undead fiend sends us straight into the long night. I want to _enjoy_ you lass, the way you were meant to be enjoyed. A fierce thing like you- shut up in a castle? Beneath the stars is where you ought to be had, out in a world as wild and fierce as you are.”

 

“You do understand that I’m from the South?” the wench asked, nudging him with her shoulder. 

The night was quiet, every living soul either still drinking and feasting in castle black, or sound asleep. From his place in the shadows, Jaime could hear the mix of condescension and amusement in her tone as she walked side-by-side with the big wildling, neither of them in any hurry.

 

“You may be trying to make a wildling of me- and have had a fair amount of success I suppose- but, Tormund, Tarth is _hot!_ Hotter, I suspect, than you can even imagine. It’s a place where the waters are crystal blue and you can jump into them in naught but your smallclothes and lay out in the burning sun til you’re bone dry again in minutes. I’m not cut out for this bloody cold, nor have I had enough mead to-”

 

“What, lass? Sorry- got lost right after the mention of you and small clothes and the sun,” he said, grinning broadly and she let out a brief bark of laugh and slapped his arm.

 

“I _said,_ Tormund, that unlike someone, who is from the North and has also had enough mead to sate a small army, I can’t see the point in sleeping out in a bloody tent when the Lord Commander has granted me some very fine quarters full of warm furs-”

 

The wench stopped talking as Tormund halted their slow strolling pace and swung her around to face him. “I’ll keep you warm, woman,” he growled. “I swear it. Warmer than any bloody furs...”

 

Jaime saw her exhale of laughter crystalize in the night air. She looked as lovely as he’d ever seen her, illuminated by the full moonlight, biting her lip, eyes alight with mischief. He suddenly felt the cold as he hadn’t before, deep in his bones and in his chest.

 

“Alright,” she said with a stiff nod. “I'll go to your bloody tent. But I warn you, once we’re done I may very well say ‘hang it all’ and flee back to my own warm bed.”

 

“I’d expect nothing less,” Tormund said airily. “Sure, one could never expect to keep such a wild, pure thing tethered t’ him for long. To be but touched briefly by so magnificent a creature is a fine enough gift. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give, my lady, and thank the gods for bringing you t’ me.”

He picked her hand up to his mouth, kissed it, gazed at her for a long moment, his beard twitching.  

“Gods, you’re bloody poetic when you’re deep in your cups,” Brienne laughed. “If only we could teach you to write down your words, you would have the all the fine Southron maidens in a faint.”

 

“Bah," he said with a wave of his hand. "There’s only one Southron maiden I care to woo. And I worked me arse off for half a year trying ‘til she finally gave in to me. Of course, I’m proud t’ say- she’s a maid no longer,” he grinned, moving his shoulders with swagger.

 

“Right. Well, I hope you’re prepared to work a bit more tonight. You’ll have to work double time if you expect to keep me warm in a bloody tent,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.  

“A fair trade. There’s naught I wouldn’t do for you, My Lady of Tarth. I am but copper in your hands. Just give me a little push and I’ll bend and twist whatever way you want me to,” his words dripped lasciviously but the wench only threw her head back and laughed into the silent night.  

 “Seven _hells,_ ” she said, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him off in the direction of the wildling encampment. “You are the- _the_ most- you...shut up.”

Tormund let her drag him, head thrown back in laughter. 

 

Jaime watched them go, a new level of bitterness setting in. He’d been prepared to take this Tormund for a thug, a barbarian, an oily wretch who’d figured out how to take advantage of the trusting, naive wench Jaime had come to care for against all the odds.

 

But, drunk as he was, Jaime tended to get the measure of a man fairly quickly.

 

As much as he might want to, there was no painting this wildling as a villain.

He was enamored with the wench, and even if Jaime tried, he found it hard to imagine a scenario where Tormund wasn’t good to her. He’d seen enough of their dynamic now to see that they were equals in this coupling, that the wench was well able to hold her own against him and give him only that which she wanted to give. 

He remembered what a sullen thing she'd been on their journey to King's Landing, how unable he'd been to get her to be anything but. Perhaps some respect and even friendship had grown up between them, a bit of color among the weeds, but he'd never seen her in bloom as she was now.

There was a lightness about her, humor and happiness that he'd never seen, and this ridiculous, brutish fellow was the cause. He could see now, there was no manipulation of Giantsbane's part, nothing devious, nothing short of complete genuine attraction.

Brienne had made a clear choice in this- and it wasn't a bad one.

That knowledge did not give him a drop of comfort. And his flask, now drained, would not give him a drop more mead. Feeling quite sorry for himself, Jaime trudged off in the opposite direction, towards his own quarters, his world shaken up in a way he wished it wasn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the great feedback you've been giving! It really means a lot and it's been a while since I've been in the fic writing game, so all encouragement= gold. 
> 
> I think you can see more than ever how much I dig Tormund and Brienne together, but the show/books give us enough pain that I am determined to figure out how to make this happy for everyone, including dumb Jaime. How that's to be accomplished, I'm still not quite sure, but I'll try to keep the updates frequent! 
> 
> Cheers!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gets a new task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Wow. I don't know if anyone is still interested in reading this long abandoned fic....  
> but the new season reignited some of my passion for Game of Thrones/ASOIAF and inspiration hit so I'll roll with it while I can. 
> 
> I'm probably not going to get too plot heavy with this, so I'm not going to try and incorporate too much of the stuff from season 7 as this already is out of sync with it. I like the idea of a Jaime who came to his senses sooner and smarter than he did. 
> 
> But I am REALLY excited to see some potential interactions between Jaime, Brienne and Tormund in season 8. Tormund of season 7 was certainly adorable and I'll probably channel some of what we saw going forward.

Jaime woke the next morning with a throbbing head, and as a small amount of the fog surrounding him lifted, he came to realize that none of his ill feelings had dissipated overnight. There was an unhappiness in him that could only be blamed in small part on the effects of his hangover. Indeed, his initial succession of thoughts upon waking seemed to be,  _ head hurts, stomach hurts, Brienne is fucking a wildling  _ and each one made him feel progressively more sick. He stumbled to his feet and managed to shove on his boots and get out the door before he hunched over and spilled the contents of his stomach onto the Snow. 

 

Somewhere to his right, a pair of crows snickered loudly. 

“Get it out, man. Get it all out.” 

“You’re far from the only one this morning!” 

 

Jaime scowled, wiped his mouth and staggered back inside. 

 

He spent the next few days trying to keep his distance from her, knowing the bitter feelings close to the surface needed some time to fizzle into something calmer. He’d never been particularly good at using soft words with her and did not trust himself to remain civil. 

 

He was able to avoid direct interactions with her, but the pair of them, unfortunately, did seem to stand out, both being so tall, Tormund with his fiery hair. Now that his eyes were open to the truth of their connection, it seemed painfully obvious and he was annoyed with himself for not seeing it before. 

 

As he had noticed, Brienne was generally in good spirits all the time in her post at the Wall, but it became clear she brightened in a unique way when the wildling turned up. She had a distinct smile for him, and though her mouth was still wide and horsey, it did light up her features-  _ her eyes-  _ in a way that was...compelling, if not overtly beautiful. It certainly stirred something in it, to see it directed at another man. 

 

Giantsbane’s care for her was more apparent to him now too. He’d pull her away from her work several times a day, offer her a drink from his water skin, ask if she was warm enough, inspecting her furs almost fretfully. The wench made a show of rolling her eyes, but it was clear she appreciated the concern. 

 

He even witnessed them in the training yard once, sparring. She’d been showing several youths a technique, an eclectic mix of boys, girls, Westerosi, wildlings, highborns and ruffians, and just as Jaime had been watching from a distance, impressed and pleased in spite of all his dark feelings, Tormund had come up to watch closer, surveying the scene with a broad smile. 

 

After watching her knock a cocksure young lad on his arse, Tormund had let out a booming laugh and stepped forward, promising to show the lad how it was done. Brienne had shaken her head at first, told him to go away, that the children would learn by  _ doing,  _ not by watching him show off, but Tormund ignored her, laughing and came at her with his blade, forcing her to react or feel the bash of his steel. 

 

Her anger faded fast as they fought, though her determination stayed high. They were well matched in strength, and he was sure-footed and fast too. They danced a striking dance together, to be sure, and the young trainees watched in awe. More than a few older folks in the yard paused their work to watch. For a while, they seemed to both be simply enjoying the act of sparring, going at each other fiercely but without much real intent. Jaime was too far away to catch most of their words, but it was clear they were talking, teasing, and several smiles were exchanged between grunts. 

 

It made him surge with new anger. He’d only ever gotten to fight her once, with his hands chained and his intentions lethal. Still, he’d felt remarkably alive and she’d impressed him more than a bit. He had wondered, more than once, what it might have been like to have a friendly spar with her, once they’d moved on to being something other than enemies. A futile, stupid thing to ponder, considering the loss of his hand had been a chief thing that had moved them past hatred. He could never hope to match her with his left hand, to put fire in her eyes like Tormund Giantsbane was now. If he tried to fight her, he was sure he’d only see pity there. 

 

He turned to leave, just as Brienne seemed to decide they’d played long enough. She was coming at the wildling more ferociously now. His back was turned, but he could hear their blades clanging together at a faster rate, an increase in grunting, and shouts from the children, most of which seemed to be in favor of Brienne. 

 

It was too much to bear. He wondered if he might appeal to Snow to send him north of the Wall now, to put him out of his misery. 

 

___

 

It seemed whatever luck was allowing him to avoid having to talk to her since the feast ran out on the third day. She found him where he was sat, tending to his weapons- never an easy task since the loss of his hand, but something he was determined to do for himself to the extent that he could. 

 

“Jaime,” she called brightly, stepping towards him. “There you are! I never thought of Castle Black as huge, but it has seemed so lately. Especially with all the new arrivals- not that I am complaining of course, the gods know we need every body we can get. Still- it makes it rather difficult to find anyone.” 

 

She was smiling at him, but he could not bring himself to return it. 

 

“You were looking for me?” he asked dully. 

 

“Yes! I feel as though I’ve scarcely seen you in the past week. How are you?” she asked, eyes bright, genuine. Holding her gaze felt painful, so averted his gaze, shrugging. 

 

“Cold,” he said. She laughed. 

 

“It certainly is at that. Just wait until you experience your first blizzard. The first one I endured...that came closer to having me turn tail and run south than my first wights did.” 

 

“You, turning your back on a promise to fight? I’d sooner believe my brother choosing a life of sobriety and piety,” he said. He was trying to keep his tone cool, but the wench, in her newfound cheer, seemed bloody impervious. 

 

“Well- of course I’d never do it,” she smiled. “Still, some nights I was tempted, especially at first.” 

 

_ You mean, until you found a ruddy wild man to warm your bed and fill your cunt?  _ He thought, though managed to keep to himself. 

 

She frowned slightly at his lack of response, but then shook her head and looked friendly once again. “Well- if you want to know why I’ve come looking- aside from the fact that I’ve barely seen you of late...I’ve been tasked by Jon with the repair and manning of another castle. The influx of men means we can fill more of them, which will be crucial to getting the word out when the dead arrive. He’s assigned me to Sable Hall. I thought, perhaps you might want to join us, bring along some of your men? If you’ve had enough of Castle Black? ”

 

“Oh,” he said, surprised enough by the offer that he forgot, momentarily, of how little he wanted to see her these days. “Well, of course. We’ve come all this way to be of use, my lady.” 

 

She smiled again. “Oh, Jon will make use of you, one way or another. But I thought I’d make an offer before someone else does. Perhaps I’ll actually get to sit with you for more than a few minutes at a time- I don’t feel as though we’ve had a proper talk since you first arrived.” 

 

“Right,” Jaime said, a bit stiffly. 

 

“Well- once again, I must be off. We intend to leave in two days time, and there are many preparations to be made. You’ll round up your men and be ready?” she asked. 

 

“As you wish, my lady,” he said, bowing rather insolently. She did not seem to pick up on any of the unpleasantness behind his actions. Bloody guileless wench. 

 

“Wonderful. You have my thanks, Ser Jaime,” she said, a genuine smile on her face as she turned away. 

 

Jaime found himself scowling. At how readily he’d agreed to do as she asked- at the pounding in his chest at the thought of actually being able to see something of the wench- at what a generally pitiful creature he’d become. Getting to his feet, he sheathed his sword and went to go round up his men to deliver the news. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love, friends!

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there we go. 
> 
> Chapter 1. I'm admittedly a huge J/B shipper and have been since 2011, but this Tormund thing is adorable. 
> 
> I'm not 100% sure where this is going but I do know I'm getting progressively more charmed by Tormund and his adoration of my favorite character ever, so he will probably be more than just a foil to Jaime/catalyst to get them together. 
> 
> A plan is starting to develop, but I'm open to ideas/suggestions in the comments if you've got 'em :)


End file.
